


Specific Requirements

by therev



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-13
Updated: 2012-03-13
Packaged: 2017-11-02 08:20:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/366930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therev/pseuds/therev
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas needs a very specific favor from Dean. (Hint: It involves his penis.) Crack!Porn. Angel facial.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Specific Requirements

It's funny how quickly angel-teleporting wakes you up, like being dropped in a tub full of ice water, but Dean must still be dreaming because he can't have just heard Cas say what he thinks he just heard Cas say.

"You need my what?"

"Your semen, Dean."

And yeah, that's what he thought Cas had said but seriously, "What the hell? You can't-- For what?"

"For a summoning."

Of course.

Dean toes at the dirty concrete floor with his sock, because he'd been in bed when Cas had appeared and said he was needed with some urgency. Then Cas had touched his forehead and taken them out of his and Sam's cozy (comparatively) motel room, away from Sam, away from his bed and his maybe-four-hours if he was lucky, and into this dark place that smelled of saw dust and industrial lubricant. For what? Another road on Cas's endless search for God. Probably a dead-end like the others.

"Look, Cas, I don't think--"

"I don't need a lot, Dean."

Dean almost laughs. Cas looks so serious. "Volume's not the problem, buddy, alright? But, man... what even is this? What are you summoning?" He looks over at the ring of candles on the floor, the chalk-lines, the blood smears from he-doesn't-want-to-know-what, and a bottle he knows is holy oil. "I mean, candlework and body fluids. You're an angel Cas. This looks like witchcraft." A beat. "God, I hate frigging witches."

"It's a deity. A powerful one. One of the few still worshipped even by your culture."

"What, Lady GaGa?"

Cas doesn't laugh, doesn't match Dean's smile with his own, but he steps closer, eyes dancing in candlelight. Sometimes Dean remembers Cas the way he'd been that night in Bobby's kitchen so long ago, terrifying and commanding. It's not often he sees it but there's a glimpse of it now and Cas has forgotten or is ignoring Dean's rules about personal space. "You worship at its temple every time you lie with a woman, Dean, every time you look twice at the waitress or the nurse or when you tend to yourself later with the thought of her in your mind."

Dean swallows, steps back, clears his throat.

"Like a sex god?"

"Like that, yes."

"And she's gonna know where God-god is?"

Cas smiles, small and quick. Dean would have missed it if he hadn't been watching so carefully. "Not 'she' Dean, and that's the working theory."

Dean nods. He's still wearing jeans and a tee because he's too paranoid to sleep in just his shorts anymore, because he never knows when he might wake up in the future or in an alternate reality or in an abandoned factory in the middle of Fuck-Knows-Where. It's not cold but he wishes he had his jacket and his shoes, because maybe he could walk away, because maybe he's thought of this before, of this sort of request from Cas, of standing in the dark and Not Talking About it. It's definitely never gone like this though, and he's always been pretty sure it'd never go at all.

"Couldn't you..." he makes an abbreviated gesture toward Cas, "I mean, Jimmy's..."

Cas sighs, eyes narrowed, shoulders going a little square as if to ward off any challenge to whatever he's going to say. "It's not an option."

"Of course not," Dean says and laughs at himself in that just-my-fucking-luck way that he thinks is the only way he laughs anymore. Cas deflates in the harsh presence of it.

"I don't know who else to ask, Dean. You're my only--" He stops himself, hand coming up in a defeated gesture that Dean gets too often from him these days. He hates that this might be another way in which he lets Cas down, but more than that, he hates the idea that Cas might ask anyone else.

"Alright, fuck it. You got a cup or something? Might be more comfortable in the motel, though. I've got a few magazines. Sam can sleep through anything--"

"Dean," Cas interrupts him, steps too close again. "The summoning has very specific requirements."

"Okay."

"It doesn't just call for semen, but for seed from the defilement of the sacred."

"Excuse me?"

"You have to defile something holy."

"So, what, I jerk off on a cross or something? That's kinky shit, man. Who makes up these rules anyway?"

"Not a cross, Dean."

"What, then?"

That's when Cas sinks to his knees. It's also when Dean takes a step back, nearly trips over some old boxes, and completely, utterly, for just a moment, forgets how to breathe.

"Uh, Cas, this really--"

"I need you to ejaculate on me, Dean."

And that should sound clinical or laughable and what-is-his-life ridiculous but it really kind of doesn't. He steadies himself but he doesn't step any closer.

"Man, Cas, you know I want to help, and I would. You want blood, you got it. I'll open up my arm up for you right now. I'll spit on a grave or even piss in a cup but, Cas, I don't know if I can do... this."

There's a flicker in Cas's gaze on him, a movement of his eyes, but he at least has the decency to not linger long on what Dean's pretty sure is the tented front of his jeans.

"I have faith in you, Dean," is all Cas says, not smirking or assuming, just kneeling pious and Cas-like, his coat pooling around him, sincerely asking Dean for his help, and maybe a little spunk. Would he have really asked anyone else for this?

Well hell. It's not like he doesn't waste his fair share on unfriendly tile walls and shower drains and motel coverlets.

He steps forward in his socks and Cas lifts his face up just a little and fuck, it's going to be embarrassing just how easy this is going to be.

"You sure about this?" He hesitates, but Cas looks nothing but certain. Goddamn serene.

"Yes, Dean."

"You keep saying my name."

"It is your name."

"Yeah, but..." it kinda gets me all worked up he doesn't say, because right now that's kind of the point. Cas doesn't push the issue, just watches as Dean undoes his fly. He's done this before with girls. A few have asked him to. He's learned it's not the sort of thing you suggest unless you know them well (or know of them well), but this is different. There's no foreplay, there's just Cas on his knees, asking for his help with some spellwork. It's a job. It's like having to spike a vamp or torch a pile of bones. If nothing else, Dean's good at getting the job done.

There's a moment where he's not sure if he should lose the pants all together or just let them fall down to his thighs. He goes for the latter, hoping to feel a bit less stupid about it, then pushes his shorts down too and his cock springs free, flagging in the air between his groin and Cas's face.

He clears his throat.

Cas is mostly watching him, his eyes, and that's unbelievably unnerving, but then Dean takes himself in hand and says, "Uh, thanks for this, by the way. I've never said. Never thanked you, I mean," and those blue eyes move from his face to his cock. Cas doesn't smile but he almost seems amused. Dean fingers his foreskin, one-year new like the rest of him, pulls it back over the head then pushes it forward again and sighs like the first glorious and surprising time. "Freaked me out at first. Turns out I didn't know what I was missing all those years. I--" spent the first few weeks after I was back masturbating furiously when I wasn't sleeping or drinking ice water by the bucketful "--I think Sammy's kind of jealous."

He smiles down, tries to laugh. This doesn't have to be weird. It's just Cas. He and Sam, they've jerked off in the same room before, dad on a hunt and nothing better to do. He did it once with the one friend he ever made in school, laughing at each other behind the kid's garage, racing to see who could finish first. Guys do it. It doesn't mean anything.

"I'm happy to give you pleasure," Cas says, shattering Dean's internal argument.

Dean shifts where he's standing, wishing he'd shed the pants after all but still doesn't. Cas is looking at him and at his dick in his hand and his stomach's full of something that is anything but casual competition or nervousness and it's all getting really complicated.

"I could close my eyes," Cas offers like he knows.

"That might be better... I mean, you'll want to eventually anyway."

Cas nods and closes his eyes and he was right, it's easier. He starts stroking in earnest and half-hard turns to serious business in no time, the second-nature slide of his palm, the tease of his fingers at sensitive skin, it calms him a little without Cas watching. At first he's determined not to even look at Cas, lashes on cheeks and the shadow of stubble, face upturned like Dean's dick is the sun shining down on him, but the room otherwise is grey and dark but for high windows where the night shines in, and when he closes his own eyes he only see Cas looking up at him anyway. So he looks, he looks long and hard and he won't apologize for it later, to himself or to Cas, and if familiar pleasure spikes especially when there's movement beneath the soft pink lids or some tightening of Cas's jaw, well maybe he's enjoying this more than he should. Fuck it. Who's to tell Dean Fucking Winchester what he can or can't have but for himself, and he's just not listening to that prick right now.

He watches Cas but watches himself too, because something about his own sex has always excited him more than just the act, especially now, watching the head nearly disappear beneath skin on the forward slide, the slick, easy glide of it, pearled at the tip, and that particular bit of magic on the underside when he pulls back. It's stupid, but there's something so pretty about it, and it makes the pleasure that little bit dirtier. This is the best time he's had spanking it since he came back and found that being resurrected had its perks, maybe even since he first learned to do it at all, when it was all new and exciting and surprising, in locked motel bathrooms and behind barns, grass tickling his thighs, or even in the Impala back when he was hunting alone, the smell of leather and a little Santana and the thrum of the engine, parked in the middle of nowhere.

He's panting because he can't not, even though he's trying to hold back because his breath is the only sound in the warehouse besides the flesh-on-flesh noise of him jerking off, but then he moans, just lightly, escaping his throat like a guilty thing, and Cas opens his eyes at the sound, blue and deep where the pupils are wide from having his eyes closed and Dean might as well be the god he's seeking for the open reverence Dean sees in them.

Dean stumbles and his jeans catch around his legs and he drops his free hand to Cas's shoulder to steady himself and one of Cas's hands comes up to the outside of his bare thigh, warm fingers spreading there, grazing just below the swell of his ass, just a little pressure, a little pull Dean might be imagining, and Dean's cock is so close, so fucking close to Cas's face, to his mouth.

"Fuck, Cas... gonna..."

"Dean."

Cas closes his eyes again an instant before Dean spills thick and suddenly over his face. He's got no kind of sense about him to make it possible to aim so it hits Cas's cheek, his jaw, there's even a bit on his ear, but it's the glisten on his lips that makes Dean moan and curse again and again as he works out the last drops that land dully on Cas's trousers, and once again, even utterly spent, when a pink tongue darts out blindly to lick a bead of Dean's come from red lips.

"Goddamn," Dean says.

"I don't think he would." Cas opens his eyes, still on his knees and quiet for a moment while Dean catches his breath, Dean's fingers painfully tight on his shoulder. Then Cas stands, steadying Dean as he does, and Dean feels a little dizzy but he bends to pull up his jeans because no way is he gonna stand there with his pants down while Cas holds him upright.

After a moment he's got his sea legs back and when he looks up from buttoning his fly Cas is wiping Dean's come from his face with his hand, not with disgust but interest. He examines it over his fingers and, oh God, Dean thinks he might taste them, and then Dean will be all dizzy again and he's already not sure they're going to be able to come back from this, but Cas only steps toward the circle and smears a small shape in the dust on the floor.

Cas says some words in what Dean's come to easily recognize as enochian, and there's a flare of red flame in the circle and then a figure, a woman, whatever Cas might have said otherwise, nude and beautiful and maybe it's the nature of her or something, because he's half-hard again. She hardly takes notice of him as she and Cas speak in a tongue he doesn't know, except to smile at him and speak to Cas in a teasing way that he's sure is about him. He just steps back, uncertain and feeling pretty insignificant, blending into the shadows.

When it's over she disappears in a similar flame and Cas stands there in stripes of pale moonlight, shoulders hunched, looking beaten.

"She didn't know, huh?" Dean asks when he's standing beside him.

"It said it wouldn't have told me if it did, but no, it didn't know."

"Sorry man." He starts to put a hand on Cas's shoulder, then thinks better of it, out of awkwardness or a need to wash them or both. "Hey, was she... was she talking about me?"

Cas turns to him finally, eyes wide and soft like Sam's best kicked puppy impression. "It said it knows you well."

"You're still saying 'it', but--"

"You saw what you expected to see, Dean."

"Yeah? What did you see?"

"Something between a jackal and a hibiscus flower and... what is the sticky stuff that children play with?"

"Silly putty?"

"Yes. That."

"That's what you expected to see?"

"I expected its true form. Additionally, I have no gender preference."

"Yeah," Dean says and maybe he shouldn't, "I'm starting to get that."

Cas sighs but it's not at Dean, it's at the room around them and the mess on the floor and the hopelessness that Dean knows he feels. Dean wants to say something more, that he's sorry, that he wishes he could help more, that he'd rip God out of heaven with his bare hands for Cas if he knew where to look, even if he thinks it wouldn't really do any of them any good, but instead he just rubs a socked toe through the dust on the floor and waits.

"Would you like to go back to your bed now?" Cas asks, turns at last to face Dean after a few moments of staring up at the moon as if it might tell him what to do next.

"Yeah, sure."

"Thank you," Cas says when he moves closer, "for your assistance."

Dean shrugs. "Any time, man."

The tilt of Cas's head and the squint that goes with it makes Dean realize what he's just said.

"The help, I mean! I'm glad to help you any time, not, you know, not come on-- I mean... fuck."

Cas seems to consider this, brows knitting together and Dean thinks somehow, after everything, this is finally the thing that ruins it all, but after a moment Cas says very seriously, "I can't think of a ritual that requires it... but if you'd like, I would not object."


End file.
